


Show You What all that Howl is For

by Scapegoat Molly (terpsichoreanpowers)



Category: Inception
Genre: M/M, Werewolf AU, there aren't enough werewolf aus in the world for me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-10-06 13:57:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10336154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terpsichoreanpowers/pseuds/Scapegoat%20Molly
Summary: Your people might have ruled the world before the coming of men, but humans exist and it's your job to figure out how to live in the places they've left open for you to do soThis is both more and less difficult than it seems at first glance





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new at this, but I love this old warhorse of a fandom and I thought I'd give it a go, feel free to wish me luck!

Your people once ruled the world. 

Four used to tell you that all through your cubhood.

"Once Sev, our people used to be like stars across the world, before cold iron and the coming of men."

You'd try and imagine the people in the numbers she described, numerous as stars, scrabbling over each other like fleas in fur.

Before the coming of men.

You were too young to understand the longing in her voice, too new to sense the danger lurking there.

You wonder now, how you didn't realise her death was inevitable.

\--------

Cabo is enough like home to be unsettling, but just foreign enough to remind you that you are on a job and need to take this seriously.

It's your first time seeing Dom since Inception and it shows.

Semi-retirement is a good look on him; he wears his stay of execution with all the grace and fervid gratitude it deserves and you find, despite how it all settled out between you, that you're amenable to forgiving him when his eyes find yours across restaurant of the hotel you've booked for the job.

He smiles, and comes over and you roll your eyes and kick out the chair across from yours, inviting him to sit down.

"You could at least pretend you're sorry," you sigh.

"For tricking you? Of course," he says, sitting gingerly, "For everything else? Never."

His smile is the first genuine one you've seen in years and you forgive him, the sorry, back-biting traitor, and offer him the rest of your coffee.

He takes the peace offering with a grimace and you smile your pretend human smile, all teeth, to show him he really has no choice in the matter.

He knows better than to turn down sharing your food.

Silence settles comfortably between you and you slide your eyes half shut in pleasure at the rightness of the moment, at having back the thing you hunted across the world for, and hum.

Dom laughs and you arch your brows at him.

"Listen to you," he chuckles, "Purring in public."

You scowl at him.

You hate it when he calls it that.

You don't purr damnit.

"We've missed you," he says, open and honest and grinning, "You ought to come by, see the kids, they've been asking about you."

"Maybe," you allow, already mentally reviewing your schedule, "After this job and the next moon, maybe."

He nods, gracious and smug, and let's you steer the conversation towards the job and the mark and the state of Dreamshare since he's gone to ground. 

It's not perfect between you again, but it will be.

Like all things it needs a little time.

\------

Humans supposedly share a common ancestry with the people.

That's why in your skin your kind seem so similar.

It's a surface similarity, not even skin deep, but it gives you access to their world, access you need.

"It is the will of the gods that men should rule the world," Four whispers to you at night, "They each had a part in their making, and when it came time to put one people over the others theirs was the only one the gods could all agree to without war."

Your own people were made by the moon, you are her cold grace, her mutability, her voice in the night, and you do her will on the earth, but she isn't master here, and so you must submit to the rule of human men.

You've been told this since before you could walk.

You are better, faster, stronger, but it is the moon's will that humans rule the world.

The people just have to find a way to get by in it.

"How are we s'posed to do that?" you remember asking Four.

Her low laugh would rumble through your body from where you used to sit in her lap and she'd lean down and press a kiss to your sweaty forehead while you waited for the sun to set so you could run.

"Don't ask me little rabbit," she'd say, "You're a clever thing, you're bound to figure something out sooner or later."

\------- 

You've fallen into dreamshare like you fell into Dom, like you fall into your skin; in jerky, awkward fits and starts, and then eventually seamlessly, like you were born into it and have had it all your life.

In truth your nature is perfectly suited for this line of work.

You are a hunter and when the need calls you are a killer too.

It isn't hard to hunt men and pull down their secrets.

Your people have been doing it since before men ruled the world.

The job in Cabo goes smoothly, just you Dom and his preferred chemist, a man named Hiram who'd stopped working with you before you did the impossible and who you are less ready to forgive than Dom is apparently.

You are a team again, the pair of you, and you are satisfied with the state of things now that he's come up from his den.

"Are you thinking of taking the Ivan job next month?" Dom asks, as you part ways at the airport.

You shrug because you haven't decided, you have more human money than you'll probably spend in this lifetime and you're thinking you might steal from off his kill and go to ground yourself for a while.

It's been a long, lean season since you've had a good run in your fur and you could use some real fun.

Dom sees it your eyes and shrugs himself, unconcerned.

He knows you're more than capable of taking care of yourself these days.

"It's there if you want it," he says, clapping you on the back, "But you'll probably need a forger."

He grins at the look on your face and heads toward his plane, going back to California and his pups and his old/new life.

You snarl softly at his retreating back, but it's too loud for him to hear you.

You think you preferred it when he was still in mourning and didn't think tug your tail like this.

You take the Ivan job.

He's right about needing a forger.


	2. Eames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry for the loooooong wait, real life is a mess

  
You like to think of yourself as a practical man.

That's why when you cashed your check from the inception job you didn't immediately fuck off and buy an island or disappear off the face of the earth like some of your colleagues.

No, though you are a veritable Midas these days and could literally spend the rest of your foreseeable future doing lines of coke off a nice bloke's abs in a Vegas penthouse wiling away the hours you did the sensible thing and paid off a few of your more pressing, deadly debts and just went back to work.

Also you bought an antique sports car.

Well, a fleet of them.

Also a house in the bloody middle of absolute nowhere to store them in, but you would argue that houses are always a practical purchase and this one has a rather nice view of the land the place came with, so you couldn't exactly resist.

There's no harm in a little spending now and again.

What's the good in being obscenely wealthy if you don't live just a little after all?

At the current moment you are enjoying your new investments and aren't quite working.

There's nothing so relaxing as tearing through the countryside knowing you have nothing more pressing than counting your spoils awaiting you back at the end of the lane home.

That, and apparently Arthur, come up from his mysterious disappearance at last, waiting patiently by your door.

You can't exactly help yourself and drift your car into a showy skid before stopping mere inches from where he stands looking bored and maybe just the slightest hint amused at the edge of the stone steps leading into the recently re-converted kitchens.

"Arthur, darling!" you say, jumping out of the car and walking around to lean against the other side. "It's been too long."

"Mr Eames," he nods, not quite hiding a laugh. "It has been."

There's a slight pause, neither of you say anything, and then you cave and cross your arms, pouting.

"How did you find me?" you ask.

The last you checked you did at least as good a job as he did falling off the damn map, and yet here he is, the slick bastard.

He shrugs and smirks and you blow out a breath in an exaggerated sigh and head up the steps.

He shadows you to the door and waits politely at the threshold like a Victorian gentlemen for you to throw out-

"Well, come in then!" over your shoulder as you head deeper into the house.

"I brought food," he says, and of course he did; he always brings food when he stops by unexpectedly, usually something you've been craving for ages so he can pull your guard down before working up his pitch.

"Figure out the kitchen on your own," you say, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of its monstrous ovens and overly complicated microwave, "Let me shower."

He moves off in the direction of your waving hand and you take the steps a few at a time to the master bedroom on the third floor and try not to feel too relieved.

  
Arthur is a manipulative, pissy little ponce and a shit and he comes across as an anal, ballbusting arsehole, but you'd be lying if you said that didn't actually delight you.

You've known him for most of your professional life; the ten years spent orbiting the same circles in dreamshare and the few other miscellaneous encounters leading up to Inception makes him more a less your best mate, though you're sure most would be shocked to hear of it.

You and Arthur have a somewhat famous rapport on the job, if it could be called that.

It's been about six months since you saw him last, his longest time away on record since you first met through Mal all those years ago.

You wonder what he wants.

You're also a liar.

You know what he wants.

Rumour has it Dom was spotted sniffing around in Latin America and you hope that means what you think it does.

You shower and change into an eye-watering mustard yellow sweater just to be an ass and head towards the kitchen where Arthur is scowling at the microwave like it owes him money.

"Problem, darling?" you smirk, and he rolls his eyes and shoves a greasy bag and styrofoam takeaway container at your chest and sits at the island counter.

Despite all appearances and work- related proficiencies, Arthur and modern amenities do not seem to get along all that much.

You've never quite worked 'round the paradox of that, you'd think he ate all his food raw.

"It's mexican food," he states, "From that dive you like on Cántico Street."

You have no idea how on earth he DOES that.

"I brought verde sauce too," he mentions, as you paw through your impromptu feast and pop open the microwave. "And an extra order of tortillas."

"Ta, you're a prince," you murmur absently, dividing everything neatly onto a set of plates, "God, I could murder some-"

Arthur leans across the counter and pulls a container of guac out of wreckage you've managed to make of his offering without you even finishing the thought.

You grin at him and he gives you a small smile.

Well, not a smile exactly, in casual settings Arthur and facial expressions are another one of those things that don't exactly tend to mix well, but there's a softening around his eyes that you like to think of as a smile.

"When did you get in?" you ask, ignoring the stupid, familiar dip in your stomach at the sight and busying yourself with the task of reheating your plates.

"This afternoon," he hums, stretching out across the marble island top and yawning, "I'd've gotten here hours ago but London traffic was a damn dogfight."

"You could have said something," you tsk, sliding a plate in front of him, "I'd've gone and picked you up."

"Yeah, but then we'd've ended up at the Camden safe-house and I wanted to see your new place." he says shrugging, not even bothering to elaborate on how he could possibly know about the place when you haven't let proof of its existence slip to a single soul. "It's not a big deal. I think I want a shower though."

You nod and sit opposite him and tuck into your food, looking him over.

He looks a bit wane, pale and tired, like he does when he's working a job.

"Eat first then," you command, tapping your fork against his plate, "You staying long?"

He hesitates for a moment and says,

"I've got a job coming up."

"I'd figured," you snort, "I heard about Cobb."

He nods and picks at his plate.

You let the silence hang for as long as you can stand it and then state the obvious.

"You two have kissed and made up then."

He looks up at you mulishly and nods again, daring you to say anything.

"Well," you sigh, "I suppose that was inevitable."

In all the time you've known Arthur you've never known him without Dominic Cobb.

You, fresh-faced out of your stint dreaming with the joint military task-force and shitting your pants over your split second decision to go AWOL remember him, already sleek and dangerous and so damn devastating, shadowing him and his then girlfriend and your ex on your first dream audition, watching you showing off the little trick that would one day make you millions and that upped the game of dreamshare forever.

You don't know what it is Cobb's got over him, but it must be neigh indescribable to keep someone as lethal as Arthur leashed so tightly to his side.

You've offered your help a dozen times at least and have been laughed off to nurse your hurt elsewhere, so you don't make a mountain of it.

You're just glad the slimy bastard's back to work, so Arthur can get back into things.

"I'm working for Perevyortov," he says, "With Hayden and Soo Yin."

Hm, that's something.

You like Ivan's jobs. They're typically outlandishly depraved and the payouts are always indescribably absurd, but you have enough ridiculous piles of money for a life time if you're honest; any more and you could strap on a speedo and go swimming through them like a cartoon character.

...

The thought has quite some merit.

"Quit thinking whatever stupid thing you're thinking and listen to me," Arthur snaps.

You have a habit of rabbiting away during tedious conversations and Arthur rather hates you for it.

You give yourself a shake and look up at him, grinning.

He frowns at you and you roll your eyes.

"How's your backstroke, darling?" you can't help but ask.

Arthur doesn't even blink at the abrupt change of topic; it's one of the things you most like about him, really.

"Why? Are we going swimming?" he asks, suspicious.

There's another idea.

You probably have a pool tucked away someplace in the ridiculous opulence of the estate.

"Possibly," you hum, "If we can find one."

"I prefer the doggy paddle," he says, deadpan, there's one of his more mysterious smiles crinkling the edges of his eyes, "But I want an answer first."

"Hm? Oh, yes, of course," you say, refocusing back in your plate.

"Do you even know what you've agreed to?" Arthur huffs.

"Sex, hopefully," you say, trying to keep your voice light and playful, "But knowing you? Another job."

"One you don't know the particulars of," he grouses.

"You do realize you and I have redefined this industry and need never work another day in our lives don't you?" you snort, "Why did you even bother to take this?"

He shrugs.

You can't help but frown at him.

He looks exhausted. He doesn't need this job and he's knackered.

"Arthur?" you prompt him again.

"Ivan offered it to me about a moo- a month ago," he says, "He's a friend; I tried the sitting around and it's not for me, it's not for you either."

He looks up at you, gaze suddenly intense and you nod, coaxing him to continue.

"You want the truth?" he asks.

You've wanted the truth from him from the moment you met him, but you know you won't ever get it.

You shrug, noncommittal.

"It sounds like fun," he says.

Oh.

Well.

You like a bit of fun, you, but there's fun and then there's Arthur's Fun. Not everyone likes Arthur's Fun, in fact what Arthur considers fun is what most people consider suicide, and if you're honest the lot of you in dreamshare are sorry bastards and you don't really have the stomach for it.

You can't help it though; it's visceral, it's animal and wild and it's risk and violence and sex and madness.

The kind of madness that helped a deranged lunatic do the impossible.

The kind of madness that's made all of you GODS.

You like fun, but you LOVE Arthur's Fun.

"I'm in mate," you say, grinning.

Arthur grins back, his more like an animal baring its teeth, and he practically purrs, looking pleased and excited.

"I knew you would be."


End file.
